


The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Calpernya



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Dreams, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hallucinations, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calpernya/pseuds/Calpernya
Summary: Padme takes up Anakin’s mission to spy on the Chancellor. She begins by accepting an invitation to the opera, where she tries her hand at seduction. Things escalate from there.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Sheev Palpatine, Sheev Palpatine/Sly Moore
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not entirely sure where this will end up, but I have several chapters sketched out. The story will get darker as it progresses, and I’ll update the tags if need be. This is set towards the end of Revenge of the Sith, and Palpatine is beginning to drop his "nice guy" persona, as Padme will soon find out.

Padme Amidala was flushed and breathing hotly by the time she reached her empty offices in the mid-upper levels of the Senate Building. She paused to catch her breath, winded from the long, slow climb up the circuitous ramp-way, and noted that the outer door to her office was curiously ajar. Poking her head inside the darkened room, she stifled the urge to sneeze, inhaling a sharp whiff of cleaning solution. No doubt a janitorial droid had recently come and gone.

It was the week of the Galactic Fair on Coruscant and Padme had given her staff the day off. Arriving late in the afternoon, bleary-eyed after a restless night’s sleep, she’d hoped for some peace and quiet, but in fact the maze-like corridors of the great domed building were unusually stuffy and crowded that day. A sudden power outage had rendered the publicly accessible turbolifts inert, compelling those beings who occupied the lower levels of the Rotunda to move about on foot, jostling one another in their haste to make up lost time. These power shortages had become a near weekly occurrence on the vast city-planet as more and more resources were funneled towards the war effort. Normally, Padme would make use of the emergency transport specifically designated for government officials and high-ranking personnel, but on this occasion she chose to traverse the mile-long distance on foot, giving herself ample time to ruminate on the events of yesterday evening: her conversation with Anakin and the horrifying revelation he had let slip.

The Senate was still in recess, and she had quite smartly decided to dress down for the occasion, forgoing her more traditional Naboo garb for a plain linen tunic. As they’d passed one another in the hall, Bail Organa had joked that he hardly recognized her. 

Padme had been just as surprised at seeing Bail:

_“I thought you were returning home to Alderaan for the break?”_

_“There’s always work to be done, Padme.”_

How true, Padme mused to herself as she cut across the clean carpet to approach the stack of datapads on her desk. The motion-sensing bulbs flickered weakly overhead, and in the obscure light she failed to notice the figure of a robed man sitting upright on the arm of a tanned synth-leather couch. She flit from one window to the next, raising the dark shades with the touch of a button, gradually filling the room with the harsh, colorless rays of the high afternoon sun. With a critical eye, she stopped to appraise her tired reflection in the glass, when she caught a flash of movement, and then suddenly a large blurry figure appeared over her shoulder.

She whirled around, breathless at the sight of Obi-Wan Kenobi standing a few paces behind her.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said, smiling shyly behind his reddish whiskers, his trimmed hair gleaming copper in the sunlight.

“Master Kenobi,” she gasped, splaying a hand over her beating heart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Actually, I arrived just before you. A droid let me in. I hope you don’t mind.” His smile thinned, brow furrowing in concern. He had grown more careworn in recent months, his face tan and weathered from the strain of battle.

Padme shook her head as she moved aimlessly towards her desk. “No, of course not,” she said in a tight voice. She liked Obi-Wan, but she always struggled to meet his clear blue gaze without flinching, terrified that she might give something away. “What can I do for you? Ah, won’t you sit down?” She gestured to a nearby chair, but Obi-Wan remained standing, his arms folded across his chest.

“I won’t keep you,” he said politely. “I just wanted to ask if you’d seen Anakin?”

Padme rounded her desk, pausing mid-step. Her spine stiffened imperceptibly beneath the loose drape of her linen tunic. “Anakin?”

“Anakin Skywalker, yes.” He sounded amused.

“Did something happen?” She asked, still with her back turned.

Obi-Wan sighed, and Padme distinctly heard the sound of a boot scuffing the carpet as he shifted in place. “We quarreled yesterday,” he said after a pause, no doubt vastly understating the matter, “and I haven’t seen him since, I’m afraid.”

Padme moved to face him, her eyes lined with worry. “He did stop by late last evening, but he left shortly thereafter.”

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan rubbed his chin in thought. “How did he seem, if I may ask?”

“A bit agitated,” she replied with a faint tremor. _Now I’m the one understating things._ In truth, Anakin had burst open the door to her office in a fit of rage. Padme had barely managed to get a word in edgewise as he railed against Obi-Wan and the Council, flinging wild accusations of treason. He spoke of a sinister Jedi plot to dispose the Chancellor, whom they wrongly believed to be in league with the Sith.

Padme had almost choked on her own saliva upon hearing _that_.

She no longer implicitly trusted Chancellor Palpatine, nor — come to think of it — did she particularly like the man. His carefully orchestrated power grabs had eroded the trust of many of his former allies, herself included. But even his staunchest critics had never accused him of being… what? A Sith collaborator?

She’d made one half-hearted attempt to speak reason to her husband:

_“Surely the Jedi Council wouldn’t make such a-a serious accusation unless they had some proof—“_

_“There is no proof! That’s why they want me to spy on him. The Chancellor. My friend!”_

“You’re sure he didn’t return to the Temple?” She asked tensely, clutching a datapad to her chest. Last night’s excitement had ended quite unceremoniously when, midway through his tirade, Anakin begged off to receive an incoming holocom. Padme didn’t ask who from, too grateful for the reprieve; though at the time, she’d assumed it was Obi-Wan, calling him back to the Temple. But if that were not the case, then who—

Padme gave a sudden, violent twitch. Palpatine. Of course it was him. The man had her husband practically at his beck and call. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she remembered how Anakin had defended the Chancellor’s innocence with a zealousness that was frankly disturbing. If Palpatine was in league with the Sith, where did that leave Ani?

Her thighs trembled under the weighty implication, and she braced herself against the back of her chair, heaving a long pent-up breath. “Is it true?” Obi-Wan stared at her from across the desk, his gaze searching. Padme moved her lips numbly. “Palpatine… the Sith…”

Obi-Wan stiffened in mute surprise. “Anakin told you,” he intoned, and Padme winced at the disapproval in his voice. His expression softened, seeing her blush, and he began to say, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Senator—“

“I understand,” she interrupted. “I won’t say anything, I promise. I won’t even tell Bail and the others.”

“Others?”

“The Jedi aren’t the only ones who have doubts about the Chancellor,” she said, hesitating. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I know you aren’t fond of politics, Master Kenobi, but you do have friends in the Senate.”

Obi-Wan grunted softly. “That’s good to know,” he said, tacking on a rueful smile. “But I suspect the Chancellor has many more _friends_ , as you say.”

“I don’t think Chancellor Palpatine has any friends. I used to think that I was his friend, but that was a long time ago…”

Padme trailed off, a hazy, faraway look in her eyes as she stretched her mind back to her earliest days in the Legislative Youth Program on Naboo. She would’ve been introduced to Palpatine around this time, but for the life of her, she could not recall their first meeting. In hindsight, the man had always been something of a cipher, as evidenced by the fact that he’d left no great impression on her memory, always lurking at the back of her mind, never in the forefront. His red hair was perhaps the most notable thing about him, and even that had since faded to gray. Only once had he truly astonished her, and that was while co-presiding the Festival of Lights, when he’d drunkenly kissed her on the mouth after a few too many glasses of wine. This was during her reign as queen and thus somewhat scandalous even by the standards of the Naboo, who believe that sex and politics are deeply intertwined.

Obi-Wan interrupted her musings. “Well, he’s friendly enough with Anakin,” he said in a peevish undertone. He pushed away from the desk and began to pace the carpet.

Padme ducked her head to hide her sudden embarrassment. She hadn’t thought about the kiss in years, and thinking on it now, in the presence of Obi-Wan, made her cheeks burn. Especially galling was the manner in which Palpatine carried on as if nothing untoward had ever happened. Anyone else might have had the decency to apologize, but Palpatine had merely smiled at her, the same insolent little half-smile he used when he was secretly pleased with himself.

“No… he treats Anakin like an underling. I’ve seen it first hand,” she murmured, unconsciously touching a finger to her lips.

“They’re too close with one another, regardless, which is precisely why the Council wanted Anakin for this task.”

This task? Padme lifted her chin and shot Obi-Wan a warning stare; shadowed beneath the curl of heavy lashes, her brown eyes darkened to black. “Anakin won’t spy on the Chancellor, if that’s what you mean,” she began with a sigh of resignation. Adding in a low voice, “I don’t trust Palpatine anymore than you do, but Anakin is blinded by his loyalty to the man.” She appeared to shrink somewhat. Anakin’s too-close relationship with the Chancellor had long been a point of contention between husband and wife.

Obi-Wan stopped short, dropping his hands to his sides. He looked torn. “If there were some other way,” he said weakly. “I never wanted to put Anakin in this position, but he’s the only one. For whatever reason, the Chancellor seems to trust him, and he’s not a trusting man.” Then — presumably to lighten the mood — he remarked, half-jokingly, “You’ve worked with him for many years. Chancellor Palpatine, that is. Have you ever noticed anything suspicious?”

Padme started. “Me?”

“Who else? You’re the senator from his home world. I imagine you know him better than most.”

Something fluttered in her chest.

“Ah, well, yes, I suppose,” Padme said, blushing, and she held a breath in trepidation, turning her gaze inward as a familiar scene began to unfold in her mind’s eye: she sees herself — or Queen Amidala, rather — kissing the recently elected Chancellor Palpatine on a secluded candlelit balcony. They are overlooking the water gardens at the Royal Palace in Theed, Palpatine dressed exactly as she remembered, a wine flute in one hand, his other arm wrapped tightly around his companion’s shoulders. The young queen, draped in red, is docile at first, and Padme can read the surprise and embarrassment on her round painted face even in the soft, colored light of a paper lantern. Finally, the shy girl twists away, and Padme catches a glimpse of the Chancellor, cheeks flushed, the blue glass of his eyes reflecting disappointment. His face darkens, and he bows his head in a sardonic gesture before graciously excusing himself with a smile.

Now, for the first time, Padme found herself wondering what might’ve happened… It was not her impression that Palpatine was particularly lascivious, but it was an open secret on Naboo that he kept concubines. He was not, therefor, the sexless paragon he sometimes pretended to be, though he had pointedly refrained from touching her ever again. Had he only kissed her because he was drunk, or was it something more?

“Padme?” Obi-Wan was peering at her in open curiosity.

She looked hurriedly away, unable to meet his keen blue-eyed gaze. A rather audacious thought was beginning to nag at the back of her mind. Obi-Wan was right. Despite their political rivalry, Padme was better placed than most to ingratiate herself in Palpatine’s inner circle. They had a common history, spoke the same language, and had similar tastes.

Palpatine had tasted her once before. 

“S—“ Her throat tightened and she broke off, coughing in surprise. “Sorry. I was just thinking,” she said, nervously wetting her lips.

She was thinking that she might have an advantage over Anakin, after all. For here was an avenue the Jedi likely hadn’t considered, but one in which the Naboo were famously well-versed: seduction. Padme hitched a breath, her mind racing at the very _idea_ , and she might’ve dismissed the unwanted notion out of hand were it not for a small, goading voice. _You could do it. You could have him._ That gave her pause _._ Did she even want him? No, of course not. But Palpatine had wanted her, she was quite sure of it now. The wine had merely emboldened him, but the desire in his eyes had been plain to see. She repressed a shiver. The thought of _that man_ lusting after her was more than a little unnerving, but she wasn’t the shy young queen from her vision. She was older now, more experienced, a seductress in her own right.

Obi-Wan coughed dryly. “Anything you’d care to share?” He asked.

Padme blinked back to the present moment, nonplussed as she searched for her voice. Her mouth was suddenly parched, and her lips tingled feverishly. Feeling a rush of shame, she dropped her gaze to stare at the pitch-black screen of her datapad. Kenobi was entirely too perceptive, and Padme prayed he hadn’t picked up on her train of thought. He would be utterly scandalized, and rightly so.

And what if he told Anakin?

She made fleeting eye contact with her own pale, queasy reflection in the dark glass before setting the datapad aside. All the while Obi-Wan waited patiently for a response. Padme turned to face him, not quite meeting his concerned stare. There was a pause as she tried to quiet her beating heart. “I was thinking—“ Shiraya, was she really considering it? “—For the sake of appearances, perhaps I should call on the Chancellor over the break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: Padme is not pregnant in this fic, meaning the timeline is somewhat off as compared to ROTS


	2. Chapter 2

A week had passed since her conversation with Obi-Wan, and already it seemed like a distant memory. Spurred on by some perverse impulse, Padme had made several dogged attempts to reach out to Chancellor Palpatine, but to no avail. During the week of festivities, all incoming calls to the Chancellor’s Office were redirected to a tersely worded automated message: _Pardon, but His Excellency is not receiving visitors at this time… Please call back when the Senate has reconvened… Long live the Republic…_

She decided to try a more direct approach. Stopping by his office one late afternoon, she was intercepted in the red-walled antechamber by Sly Moore, the Chancellor’s enigmatic personal aide, who repeated the message practically verbatim in a low, heavily-accented monotone. Not to be discouraged, she managed to gain access to personal comlink — being the senator from Naboo had certain advantages — but she was wary of overstepping her bounds. The Chancellor guarded his privacy, and she didn’t want to cause him undue offense.

Finally, and after much deliberation, she transmitted a short text wishing him a happy and “well deserved” break. As an overture, she even sent Threepio along with a bottle of wine, only to spend the next several days nervously checking her messages.

No response.

Padme felt a flicker of irritation at this perceived snub, but it was hardly surprising. Palpatine was slippery at the best of times, and lately she had the distinct impression that he was avoiding her. Even as the Senate slowly reconvened, she caught only glimpses of him here and there.

On one instance, she managed to track him down in the upstairs dining room of a blue-lit and surreally atmospheric Umbaran restaurant, recently opened in the lobby of 500 Republica. Padme was not overly fond of Umbaran cuisine, famous for its hallucinogenic properties, but Palpatine was a known connoisseur.

“Yes, the Chancellor has quite a taste for Umbaran,” the Twi’lek waitress commented offhandedly, flicking her lekku and glancing over her shoulder to a dim, cordoned-off section of the upper dining hall.

Palpatine was sitting alongside his aide, Sly Moore. They were tucked in the corner of a private booth, the sole remaining occupants of a large, round banquet table strewn with half-empty plates and platters. Padme observed them for a time, distractedly picking at her own medley of pus-filled vegetables. That is until she swallowed a spicy garnish by accident, and so spent the next few minutes coughing into her napkin, her eyes red-rimmed and watery.

Sensing her distress, the Twi’lek waitress reappeared to top off her glass of water. Padme sipped a mouthful, shooting the waitress a blurry look of _thanks_ , but the burning itch in her throat persisted, and she began to sweat. Her skin flared hot, and her color deepened. She thought about running to the ‘fresher to rinse her face, but she was afraid the Chancellor might slip away in the meantime — and she was determined to speak to him at least once.

Her eyes darted back to the corner table as Moore shrugged off her outer layer.

The Umbaran woman was rumored to be Palpatine’s mistress; considered something of a fashion plate, tonight she was wearing a loose silver fringe dress beaded with Mygeeto pearls. Not very elaborate by the standards of the Naboo, but certainly costly. The Chancellor seemed to approve, judging by his expression, and as the evening wore on, Padme caught herself openly staring at the pair, noting the way their fingers brushed every so often as they whispered back and forth. Palpatine was nursing a tall drink, and he appeared to be dictating something under his breath. Moore nodded along, dutifully making notes on her holopad.

Padme watched and waited for an opening, tapping her fingers.

At some point during the night, she developed a dull, pricking headache, which compelled her to hurry. She rose to her feet somewhat dizzily and stood gripping the back of her chair as the room spun. She felt strangely… drunk. But that couldn’t be the case. She’d had very little to eat _or_ drink. Perhaps she was simply hungry.

Whatever it was, it made her knees weak, but she wasn’t about to turn around. The Chancellor was _right there_. Setting her mind to it, she determinedly picked her her way across the room, through a maze of empty tables and chairs.

She was nearly there when she came to a sudden stop, bumping lightly against the edge of a table. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she registered the sound of a scrape and the faint rattle of dishware, but the Chancellor appeared not to have heard the soft commotion, quite preoccupied with kissing the Umbaran woman wrapped in his arms.

Padme stifled a cough, watching in faint surprise. _So the rumors are true._

She wavered in place, at a loss. Should she excuse herself? The Naboo were intensely reserved about such matters, and she did not wish to intrude, but she was standing within clear view of the table. Any minute now the Chancellor might spot her, and then what? What could she say?

She averted her eyes, sneaking fretful glances around the half-empty dining room as the kiss deepened, and when the Chancellor finally pulled up for a breath, Padme caught a glimpse of Moore’s reflection in a mirrored wall, her face eerily serene, lips swollen and bloodied. Palpatine tightened his grip, and her body sagged in his arms. She parted her lips, hissing softly when he lowered himself to suckle the pale skin of her neck, and then louder when he tugged the strap of her dress, slipping a hand underneath the gauzy silver fabric to pinch her breast.

Padme’s own face blanched in the glass, and she felt distinctly embarrassed on Moore’s behalf. What was the Chancellor thinking? The Holonet might excuse him the one kiss, but this was pushing the limit.

She tried to look away, but all she could do was stare morbidly in the mirror, her eyes tunneling as blue-toned shadows darkened the edge of her vision. Her mind flashed back to the Festival of Lights, to the interlude on the balcony, and her memory of kissing the Chancellor began to blur with the present moment, and for a surreal, suspended amount of time she sees herself in Moore’s place.

It was then that she noticed a pair of bright feral eyes leering at her in the warped glass. Palpatine lifted his head, and Padme held his gaze in the mirror, struggling to make sense of what she was seeing. His features were dimly lit, and she could just barely make out a sallow, gray, shriveled _husk_ of a face staring back at her. The bone structure was vaguely familiar, but the skin was wrinkled beyond recognition, lips twisted in a mocking smile.

The smile thinned, and Padme shut her eyes when the cadaverous face swung towards her. Stumbling blindly, she eventually found her way to the ‘fresher, where her legs finally gave out, and she collapsed on a bench.

…

A few days later, and she was still recovering from her bout of food poisoning, propped up in bed with a lingering fever. Fortunately, she had the whole weekend to recuperate — plenty of time to muse on the hazy events of that evening. She tried not to think too hard on it. Her recollection was spotty in places, and her memory of the long, staggering walk back to her apartment was vague at best, but somehow she’d managed it. And she was about ready to forget the entire episode and move on, but the grisly image of the Chancellor’s pale, twisted face stuck with her. Even thinking about it now filled her with a cold, gut feeling of dread.

Padme shook herself: it was just a trick of the light, or a hallucination. The medical droid had informed her that fever-induced hallucinations were not uncommon in such cases of food poisoning, and she was beginning to wonder if she’d dreamed the whole thing. In hindsight it all seemed utterly surreal. The Chancellor groping a woman in public? He hardly seemed the type… Unless he was drunk. Regardless, how was she supposed to look the man in the eye? When just thinking about it made her blush.

Padme scolded herself for being childish. _She_ had nothing to feel embarrassed about. And when did she turn into such a prude? It was just a kiss. Well, mostly.

_It’s none of your business. Stop thinking about it._

Easier said than done.

For the most part, she was able to distract herself during the day, but her unconscious mind would not leave it alone, and now her memory of that night was beginning to bleed into her dreams, which muddled things even further. Sometimes she would simply re-envision the scene, exactly as it had played out in the restaurant, but lately she’d begun to elaborate upon it. As was the case with dreams, she only remembered bits and pieces… faint, fragmented images of the Chancellor entwined with some pale, faceless woman… but it was enough to make her burn with shame.

She’d only just woken up from a nap, and she was still grappling with the vision of Palpatine, dressed in a long, sweeping red robe that looked very different from his usual regalia, nipping and kissing a trail up and along a woman’s inner thigh, marking the soft, milky flesh with his teeth. The woman — presumably Sly Moore — was stripped bare and spread across the table like a full course meal.

“What were you doing there? I thought you hated Umbaran food,” Anakin interrupted her thoughts, his voice dark with suspicion. He’d stopped by to drop off a bouquet of flowers on his way to the Temple. He was still holding the flowers to his chest, but now he moved to place them on the dresser, pausing to sniff a bottle of her perfume.

“I don’t hate it,” Padme said weakly. She took a sip of water to cool herself, wetting her chapped lips. She was still sweaty and flushed from her nap, and she felt strangely exposed in her nightgown. She could feel Anakin’s eyes on her, silently pressing her for an answer. His gaze burned, and she swallowed a lump of panic, wondering if he sensed something, if he knew…

He spoke up suddenly, and she almost dropped her glass. “The Chancellor mentioned seeing you. He said he was sorry you left in such a rush.”

Padme stared blankly.

She took a few quick breaths of cold, ventilated air to clear the tension in her chest, hesitating. “Did he?” Her voice sounded parched, and she sipped another mouthful of water before daring to ask, “What else did he say?” More importantly, why was he gossiping to Anakin about her? And why was he acting so distant towards her? He hadn’t even called to check on her health, not that she was expecting a bouquet of roses.

Anakin shrugged. “Nothing much.” He dragged his feet towards the window, a distracted look in his eyes. “Oh, he did say one thing. He wanted to know if you were feeling well enough to attend the opera with him.”

Padme stuttered in surprise, spilling a cold shock of water down her front. “What! When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't mean for this to be its own chapter. The first half was meant to be a "brief" flashback, but it just kept going ;__;


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Padme was anxiously scrolling through her holopad when she received a message from the Chancellor’s office, an invitation sent via green text asking her to attend the opera that night as His Excellency’s honored guest. Padme stared in surprise. Even though Anakin had forewarned her, she was still somewhat incredulous, and she reread the message aloud to C-3PO as he emerged from the vast walk-in closet, proffering a number of opulent gowns to choose from.

Threepio didn’t have lungs, but he sounded breathless with excitement. “An invitation to attend the opera as the Chancellor’s honored guest,” he repeated to himself, tottering under the weight of so much heavy fabric. “Goodness me.”

Padme was somewhat less than impressed. _Honored guest_ , indeed. And whatever had she done to warrant such a title? “It sounds more like an order than an invitation,” she said with a worried look, placing the holopad aside. There was no RSVP, merely a set of instructions informing her to be ready at such and such a time.

“Why, that’s only a few hours from now,” Threepio said, fretting to himself as he vanished back into the closet.

Padme fell silent, chewing her lip. She needed to think. She’d spent the previous day going back and forth in her head, and she was half tempted to tell the Chancellor to go stuff himself, to make it clear that she did not wait around at his beck and call.

_Not like Anakin_.

But how could she pass up such a rare opportunity? Palpatine was a known patron of the Galaxies Opera House, but in all her years on Coruscant, Padme had never been asked to sit in his private box. Only those senators who managed to curry enough favor were ever invited to appear alongside him. Besides, she’d been hoping for a personal audience with the man, now here was her chance.

The next few hours passed in such a rush that she barely had time to wonder _why_. Why had Palpatine invited her, of all people? And why now, after ignoring her all this time?

He certainly didn’t seem terribly excited to see her, dozing off in the back seat of his armored transport as Padme slid into place beside him. She’d been escorted into the imposing vehicle by a member of the Red Guard, who, after shutting the blaster-proof door with a heavy _shunk,_ resumed his position in the front compartment behind a sliding glass partition. The windows were tinted an opalescent black, and Padme took a moment to adjust to the dim light as she settled in, fussing busily with her safety belt.

She was smoothing the fabric of her dress when she accidentally brushed against the small, shrunken figure of the Chancellor, who was sitting low in his seat, his glassy eyes half-closed.

Padme studied him, pursing her lips in concern.

Palpatine looked thinner, more aged, his face wrinkled in a tired frown. His pallor was off — not quite gray but translucently pale. And with his eyes half-lidded, he seemed as if in a trance, his body completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. She paused to hear the soft rhythm of his breathing before the engine thrummed to life. It was just the two of them, she realized with a jolt as the armored car lifted smoothly into the night sky. The Red Guard was out of sight, and the Chancellor’s aides were mysteriously absent.

“Senator Amidala,” Palpatine spoke up suddenly. His lips parted in a long sigh, and he roused himself slowly, blinking and stretching his neck to glance idly in her direction, clearing the rasp from his voice. “How good of you to come, and on such short notice.”

Padme dipped her head, her expression carefully blank. “Its my pleasure, Your Excellency.”

His cheek twitched. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, smiling tightly. Padme gripped her seat. Was that sarcasm she heard in his voice? He stared off for a moment, still wearing the same thin, bloodless smile, and then turned to face her with a more thoughtful expression. His tone softened, but she detected a faint mocking edge to his words, “You look flushed, my dear. Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, Chancellor. It’s just a bit warm.” She pulled at the collar of her overcoat, peeling off the detachable synth-fur trim. Perhaps she did feel a touch feverish, but the heat was turned up to a stifling degree, hot air blasting from the vents. She tried not to think about their last encounter. Her cheeks were already quite red enough, sweat dotting her forehead.

Palpatine said nothing for several minutes, perfectly at ease despite wearing a richly embroidered dark robe. He settled back in his seat, eyeing her with a lidded gaze. “Forgive me if I nod off. Your company is stimulating as ever,” his voice lowered as he slipped into their native tongue, “ _but I have not slept in many moons._ ”

“Oh?” The sign of a guilty conscious, perhaps? Padme kept this thought to herself. Instead she nodded, “Of course, I understand.” Sliding towards him as the car dipped unevenly and speaking softly into his ear, “ _You carry a heavy burden_.”

Those pale eyes flicked open as she reached out to pat his sleeve. “Indeed,” came the deep, solemn intonation. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested lightly on his forearm. “Are you going to suggest that I ease my ‘burden’ by returning emergency power to the Senate?”

Padme snatched her hand back. The thought had crossed her mind. Damn him. “Let’s not talk about politics,” she said with a faint huff, lacing her fingers tightly together.

Palpatine hummed in amusement. “Very well.”

More silence, and Padme began to shift in her seat. “Did you get the wine I sent over?” She asked boldly. Or had his security detail confiscated the bottle? 

“Mm, yes, thank you,” the Chancellor yawned. “It was most kind. I do have a fondness for Alderaanian wine.”

“I remember,” she said with a meaningful glance. She was thinking of the time he’d drunkenly kissed her, but Palpatine had assumed an air of utter detachment, staring off with a dull, glassy-eyed look. He didn’t even blink, and Padme felt a nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Was the Chancellor playing dumb, or had he forgotten?

They rode the rest of the way in silence, the Chancellor dozing in and out of sleep, Padme watching through the tinted glass as they approached the dome of the Opera House, circling overhead before the car abruptly descended onto a private docking pad. Palpatine was still sitting with his eyes closed, and she gently shook him by the shoulder. He felt frail beneath his layered robes, and she grasped his arm, helping him to stand as they touched down.

The Red Guard pried the door open, and they were greeted by a balmy gust of air as they exited onto the floating platform. Padme breathed a sigh of relief, and she took a moment to admire the gleaming cityscape, soaking in the night’s breeze, before the Chancellor ushered her along.

They did not enter through the lobby. Instead, gliding a hand along the curve of her back, Palpatine pressed her through a side door and down a narrow corridor which led into a private sitting room with a bar, a lounge, and windowed viewing area that overlooked the glittering arena. The room itself was furnished entirely in red: from the thick-curtained walls to the rich, burgundy carpet and clashing scarlet upholstery. 

A gold-plated droid hurried over to take their coats, bowing stiffly at the waist.

Padme shrugged off her outer garment to reveal the long, shimmersilk gown underneath. The Chancellor raised a brow, and she could practically hear his thoughts turning as he looked her up and down. The cut of the dress was modest — long sleeved with a high jeweled collar — but it was the _color_ that caught his eye. A red embroidered bodice and matching train studded with tear-shaped rubies. Red on red. The colors of House Palpatine.

He seemed to recognize the gesture for what it was, murmuring a noise of appreciation low in his throat before offering his hand. Padme took him by the arm as he drew her behind a silk curtain and into the adjoining box seat, where they were met with the usual suspects: Mas Amedda, Sate Pestage, Sly Moore, and a few others. The glittering assembly politely cheered as they emerged onto the balcony, and the Chancellor’s aides rose to greet him, bowing their heads. Palpatine murmured a few words to each of them, motioning for Padme to sit as he fell into conversation with the Vice Chair. She took her place in the front row, aimlessly scanning the crowd below.

The lights dimmed, and Palpatine lowered himself beside her. His advisors were scattered around him, and they leaned forward, one at a time, to whisper in his ear. Glancing over her shoulder, Padme caught Sly Moore’s pearly white gaze more than once.

Padme did not have much of a chance to speak with the Chancellor, herself. It was difficult to hear over the droning, hypnotic music, and she was beginning to wonder if she was out of her depth. The Naboo had intricate courting rituals, but Padme was only familiar with them in theory, not in practice. From Anakin to Clovis, all of her lovers were, and had been, off-worlders.

Her mood darkened, and she was tempted to make an excuse to sneak off somewhere.

She was gripping the arm of her chair when she felt the brush of cold fingertips. The Chancellor drew back his sleeve, and his hand reached out to envelop her own. Padme stilled, glancing beneath lowered lashes. Palpatine squeezed her fingers in reassurance, staring straight ahead. It was meant as a friendly gesture, but his touch lingered a moment too long.

She hesitated, leaning into him slightly. He shifted closer, and she felt a pang of homesickness, breathing in his cologne. He smelled like the night-blooming gardens of Naboo.

He turned to face her during the intermission, dismissing his advisors with a lazy flick of the wrist.

“Something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?” He asked with a mischievous glint, signaling to the gold-plated droid. “If I promise to behave myself, that is?”

Padme’s dark eyes widened a fraction. So, he did remember…

The Chancellor smiled knowingly. “Of course I remember.” He bent down to whisper hotly in her ear, “Kissing our lovely virgin queen… How could I forget?”

Padme sat back in surprise, cheeks tinged a delicate pink. She smoothed her hands down her skirt. “You were drunk," she said reprovingly.

“Was I?” His voice brightened, and his large nose wrinkled with a sort of impish glee. For a fleeting moment, he looked like his younger self. “I must say, you look stunning tonight.” He tapped a finger to his chin, perusing her face, her eyes, her body. “Red suits you, my dear.”

“Well, I had to get your attention somehow,” she said, coming out of her daze. Her brown eyes darkened, pouting her lower lip. “I feel as if you’ve been avoiding me, Chancellor.” She was putting on an act, but she was surprised to hear a genuine note of hurt in her voice.

Palpatine stared at her intently. “If you wanted my attention, you have it.”

Did she want his attention? Her gaze darted over the crowd of spectators, as if she expected to see millions of eyes staring up at her in judgement. She drew in a long, quivering breath and said, “Perhaps we might continue this conversation in private?” Speaking in the flat-toned voice of Queen Amidala.

“Of course.” Palpatine bowed his head in a show of deference. He made to stand, when his comlink beeped. His face soured at the interruption. “Go on ahead—” he groped for the small handheld device, nodding in the direction of the red room “—I will be along in a moment.”

Padme straightened up slowly, moving in a trance. The gold-plated luxury droid met her at the door, holding aloft a tray of refreshments. Padme waved a hand, “No, thank you,” and drifted over to the large glass window, where she stood for several minutes, staring out over the crowd with a faraway expression. She spotted a number of cam droids hovering in the open air, winking their black, bug-like photoreceptors, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was missing a chance to listen in on the Chancellor’s conversation.

She turned just in time to see a richly dressed figure appear from behind a curtain. Too late.

“Ah, there you are,” Palpatine said, holding out his arms. He swept into the room, gracefully sidestepping the droid.

Padme started towards him. The hem of her dress swirled at her ankles. “Who were you speaking with?” She asked, trying not to sound unduly curious.

The Chancellor closed the short distance between them in a few quick strides, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. “Master _Yoda_ ,” he said with a frozen smile, putting a strange emphasis on the name. He shook his head. “But enough about that little green troll.”

Padme stopped short, staring in disbelief as he brushed past her without a glance. Was he joking? He seemed agitated, pausing in front of the window, hands fluttering at his sides.

She approached him from behind. “Did something happen?” She asked nervously, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Did Master Yoda—“

He turned in a flurry of dark robes, snatching her arm out of the air and pulling her in for a bruising kiss. There was a clash of teeth, and he hissed a breath, growling low in his throat, “I said _enough_.”


End file.
